Monday, Mar. 03, 2003 - 12:33 p.m.

4:15 p.m. PST As I looked around the aircraft�s business class section I notice I�m surrounded by row after row of bland white guys wearing white Brooks Brothers button down collar shirts, gray slacks, black worn Tom McCann lace-up shoes and still wearing the blue red yellow paisley solid striped ties, even though they�re on a five hour plane ride that will get into JFK just prior to midnight, and of course each donning a quarter inch gold band on the appropriate finger. I wonder who these guys are. Is this straight America? Is this what life is supposed to be? Are their bosses and secretaries and wives and kids keeping the home fires burning while Mr. Upper-Middle-Class-Working-Every-Man is sent into combat to sell or negotiate or purchase or service their tired aching hearts out so they can bring home the bacon to a God fearing Christian household filled with Ethan Allen furniture combined with craft fair fare announcing "We�re the Peckers" or "Welcome to the Peckers" or "Caution, Peckers Crossing." What�s the deal? Am I missing something? Am I missing out or are these men?

Either way, I�m the guy they�re all wondering about. How come he gets to wear jeans and funky suede shoes and an aborigine corduroy shirt unbuttoned to his navel easily showing off his worked out, well paid attentioned to, gym trained chest tucked not so discretely under a lightly colored T-shirt that says something or other on it. But they just can�t figure out what because that would mean staring and that would mean the possibility of getting caught staring and that would mean having their own sexuality questioned by someone other than themselves for a change.

I want to ask them if the sex was empty. You know the escort, the prostitute, the strange you got last night after the meeting, after the dinner, after the lecture, after you feigned a headache, want to talk to the kids before they go to bed, whatever excuse you didn�t use last junket west. You know the woman or man that made you feel all tingly as you fingered their phone number for the past week while pretending that the thrill was all in the fantasy. After all you�d never really use the number you just liked knowing you could. So, guess what, you bastard, you did use it. And what�s more is you knew you would. So, how was it? Fulfilling? Hot? Different? Or was it empty?

I bet it was your first time right? I bet you�ll never do that again. What were you thinking anyway? What if it was some undercover sting operation? What if the bitch stole your wallet or your Tag Heuer or that band of gold slipped off your finger and into the bottom of a sock. What if he/she wanted more than the $250 in fives and tens and twenties you�d been squirreling away from your little lady so as not to draw attention to a large ATM cash withdrawal announcing your infidelity like a neon hickey. Did you think about that as you sat on the edge of the bed in your Dockers desperately trying to look cool, relaxed and widower-like hoping your pleasure partner wouldn�t put their knife to your throat forcing you to unlock your Kirkland One-Suiter Carry-On Wheel-A-Way so they could get to the hidden goods.

Was it for the thrill or am I thinking too common? It wasn�t to prove you still could was it? Perhaps you have such built up resentment towards your kid�s mother that you felt you deserved it, earned it.

So what was it like? Was it your first time or just first time in a while? Did he look like that 24-year-old hotshot on the third floor with the broad shoulders, slim waist and smile that you just can�t seem to get away from and the ass that reminds you of when you were 24 and reminds you that you�re not any longer? Was his chest as hairy or as smooth as Hotshots?

What�d you do? What�d he do? Was it worth it? What�d you tip him?

So what was it like? Did she look like anybody other than your wife? I bet her tits were big. Was that your first time nestling in fake tits or just your first time in a while? Did she remind you of that sorority girl your son introduced you to last time you visited campus with the slim hips and natural blonde hair tucked behind her left ear and constantly nibbling on her lover lip perhaps giving you a secret sign that if only Junior wasn�t around she�d love to get it on with a real man like you who knows this way around a fresh young tight toned tanned lotioned and scented body that you were able to get when you were 20 and reminds you that you�re not any longer. Was her zone as hairy or as smooth as Co-eds?

No, I bet she was Asian. A hottie that made it all about you. Your needs, your pleasure, your dollar your choice. What�d you do? What�d she do? Was it worth it? What�d you tip her?

Come on guys this is your chance to purge the guilt from your souls. To rid the disguist from your punishing minds before you go have to see the look in your loved ones eyes searching for what�s wrong what�s different. Come on tell me. I won�t tell anyone. Who would I tell anyway? I don�t know any of you. Just tell me.

Wow. I was right then. And? Yeah�and what else? Uh huh�and? Wow. Would you do it again? Why not? Oh I see it was empty. The tricky part is you�ve got to somehow get it together get it behind you now that you got it over with and out of the way. You�ve got to go home to the wife you love with all your heart and the kids that make you so gosh darn proud and the boss that treats you like a son and the rest of your mundane day after day routine of a life.

Good luck my friend. Best of luck. You�ll need it cause Hotshot and Co-ed are a dime a dozen. They�re everywhere reminding you of what you have and what you want. You�ll be traveling again soon. Getting away from the rut getting away from what�s keeping you safe keeping you honest. You�ll pretend to forget, as you finger your airline ticket to anywhere but here in one hand and a Post-It with a ten digit number in the other, that it was empty. Maybe you�re right. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time you�ll feel something. Just like you used to. Just like you want to.

As I offer them my story it�s so obvious that Mr. Wasp-Nice-Guy, with the 40-something paunch, bifocal glasses with thoughts of comb-overs in their future, just can�t bear to hear about a lifestyle that�s so unnatural, so un-American, so unobtainable. As the dim light behind their tired eyes fade to black I�m being tuned out and pushed from their minds over crowed with facts and figures and special dates they best not forget can�t forget can�t begin to want to forget.

Then one man, one particularly sad and typical man, pulls from his wallet a photo of an ordinary women flanked by a ten year old boy and a twelve year old girl. The look on his face says it all but I ask anyway, "Is it empty?"

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